


You Know What They Say

by stilinstuck (superagentwolf)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Wings, Jackson Whittemore is Bisexual, M/M, Pack Dynamics, Peter Hale & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Stiles-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 14:23:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11991663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superagentwolf/pseuds/stilinstuck
Summary: Stiles has been keeping a secret. Eventually, though, all secrets in Beacon Hills come out. He's just lucky that his troupe of friends already include werewolves and a banshee. They're more accepting than most.





	You Know What They Say

He only ever wanted to be happy.

Sometimes, late at night, he thinks _I’ll tell them_ , _I’ll tell everyone_. They’re selfish thoughts that come to him in the dark of his bedroom but he indulges them, imagining what it would be like. Their reactions. Their faces.

He thinks about it and then he realizes he can’t.

Because he’s seen what would happen.

-

_“Mom! Mom, why can’t Dad know?”_

_“Because, honey. Because we have to keep him safe,” she says, smile faltering a little._

_Her eyes are bright, and later he will realize that it was because she was trying not to cry._

_Later, he will realize it was because she was in pain._

_“I’m keeping Dad safe?”_

_“Yeah, honey. You’re keeping Dad safe.”_

_He is little-boy proud when he runs out the front door, cheering, jumping. Feeling his feet lift off the ground, weightless if only for a moment._

_He wants the feeling to last forever._

-

Scott complains about being a werewolf and Stiles listens, sympathetic.

“I’m a freak!”

His empathy wears thin.

He doesn’t want to be angry. Scott doesn’t know. And really, it’s all Stiles’ fault, because he had been itchy between the shoulders, mind racing.

He knows it is his fault so he says nothing, giving support where it is needed and forcing himself to forget his own problems.

-

It’s getting harder to concentrate.

He remembers his mother- the first signs, the way she’d been a little lost. It scares him, but he doesn’t think it’s the same. For now, he tries to self-medicate, mixing the little colored pills in hopes that they can make the world a little less bright.

Still, Scott needs his help and school is getting complicated. He still channels his energy into thinking about Lydia whenever he can, the old distraction more of a habit than anything else. With the werewolf problem, though, it’s becoming easier to lose himself.

He’s in danger of shifting so he makes a plan to go out, stretch- and then something happens.

-

_“Stiles?”_

_He waits, eyes filled with tears, crouching in a corner. He’s shaking a little, not really out of fear but because he’s sad and worried. His mother’s expression is one of horror and shock. She moves a step closer, pausing, eyes landing on his bloodied arm._

_“Honey,” she manages, voice breaking, and then the front door opens and Noah is home._

_“Hey, I’m-,” he starts, walking in, tired but smiling, and then his light fades._

_He sees his son, the cut on his arm, and his wife standing across the room. There is a knife on the floor._

_“I didn’t-,” Claudia starts, blinking too fast, and Noah’s hands press over his face, resting on his mouth._

_He keeps them there, as if keeping something in._

_“Claudia,” he manages, and it’s barely controlled. “You’re sick. You need-,”_

_“No-,” she starts, desperate, trying to move closer, “Noah, no-,”_

_Noah’s arms rise, holding her in place, and his eyes are hard. His voice is firm._

_“That’s our son,” he says, voice cracking a little. “Our son. You’re hurting him.”_

_Stiles holds his sobs in, because he’s learned to stay quiet, and when his father returns from sitting Claudia on the couch Stiles has pulled the tears back inside._

_His father holds out his hand and Stiles stands, arm cradled to his chest, watching when they drive away to the hospital._

_His mother never comes back home._

-

It’s prom night and Stiles notices Lydia leaving.

He follows, not because he wants to talk, but because he has a horrible feeling inside. It’s the same feeling he had the day his mother stood on the roof of the hospital.

When he gets outside, he hears Lydia breathing too fast and he sees Peter across the field, smiling.

 _No,_ he thinks, desperate, because he cares about Lydia and he knows what the man is doing. He knows what the man wants, the power he’s after, what he’ll do to Scott and the others.

And his silly bird heart flutters and flips and he _can’t do nothing_.

“Leave her alone,” Stiles commands, firm, and he moves closer to stand in front of Lydia.

“Stiles?”

She sounds confused, scared, maybe a little frustrated, and he wants to tell her _it’s all right_ but he knows she may not even believe him. May not want to, after what she will see.

“Stiles,” Peter echoes, tilting his head, amused. “Step aside.”

“No,” Stiles says, resolute. “Take me or don’t. I’m not moving.”

The field is silent. For a moment, he thinks he’ll have to fight the man. He doesn’t want to, is desperate not to, and maybe Peter senses the desperation. Maybe he senses _something_ , because he smiles, easy and full of teeth.

“Come with me,” he says, smooth, and Stiles follows.

-

“You’re going to help me find Derek.”

“You know, have you tried _calling_ him? Because-,”

There’s a clawed hand against his neck and then his head hurts, slammed against the hood of the car. _Gee, I wonder if that’s a family thing._ Peter leans close and Stiles can smell his aftershave, thinks _he would be handsome if he wasn’t a killer_ , and then the man’s breath ghosts against his skin.

“I wouldn’t. You’re still in one piece because you’re valuable. You should stay that way.”

Stiles swallows, hard, and looks at the laptop. He remembers what Danny did before- of course he does, he’d been trying to distract himself with the sound of the keyboard- and he tries to track Derek, fingers nervously dancing, and Peter watches.

“His username is Allison? His… _password is Allison_?”

Stiles takes little pleasure at Peter’s incredulity. He’s still too hyped up to concentrate much, the world too loud and bright around him. He glances at the man, barely able to keep his tongue in check.

“You still want him in your Pack?”

 _Please let Lydia get help. Please let her know to tell Scott. Please._ He pleads over and over like a rosary and then the laptop pings. Peter grins.

“It should have been you,” he says, eyes glittering. “Scott’s useless to me.”

He’d always wanted to be the important one. The normal extraordinary. _But not like this. Never like this._

-

In the end, he doesn’t have to do anything.

They get to the Hale house and Derek is waiting, ready. Scott is there, too, and Allison is miraculously cooperative. He wonders how long it’ll last.

Stiles is pulled out of the car, Peter’s hand at his neck, and Scott is puffed up in all his best-friend glory.

“Let him go. He has nothing to do with this.”

Peter laughs but he pushes Stiles anyways, raising an eyebrow.

“I _like_ him. Now, _you_ \- you’re the real failure here.”

And then everything goes to hell.

-

Kate is dead.

Peter is dead, too, and Stiles doesn’t feel any better. None of it feels any better.

He sits in his room that night, shaking involuntarily, the spasms racking his body on and off. He tries to focus, crawling under the covers, pulling a book from under the mattress.

It’s leather, worn thin, only a few pages left. There are jagged teeth where the rest were pulled out.

He opens the book, pausing, and traces the writing in the middle of the page with cold fingers.

_Mischief._

-

_“You should have said yes,” Peter says, staring at the ceiling, gaze dead._

_Stiles sits cross-legged in the cold space, quiet._

_“…did you want to kill her? Laura?”_

_Peter is quiet and Stiles can see the man twitching, an unknown cloud passing over his face. It’s familiar, he thinks. It’s the face his father had made the day he came home to see his son bleeding on the floor._

_“Why would I ever want to kill my family?” Peter asks, voice breaking, and Stiles’ heart aches._

_He’s not sure if it’s a question. If Peter even knows. He wants to say something to help, but then the wolf comes and it lunges for him, teeth at his throat._

_He screams._

-

“You look like shit,” Jackson says, blunt.

“You’re sweet. Wanna go to prom with me?”

It’s a tired reply. Jackson seems to notice, too, because he doesn’t answer it with a hit. _It’s not working,_ Stiles thinks, but he’s too medicated to panic. _My mask is slipping._

They’re outside the Hale house. Scott is there, talking to Derek. Or arguing.

After Boyd, Isaac, and Erica, Scott had figured it out. With Stiles’ help, of course.

The transformations. Derek’s small army. His promises. Scott had been angry at first. _They don’t know what it does,_ he’d said, slamming his locker. _What they can’t do now._

And Stiles hadn’t pointed out that Erica was having seizures before. That Isaac had always been bruised and curled in on himself, in plain sight but right where no one would see. Boyd’s family.

“I’m going home,” Stiles says shortly, rising. His back is itchy, along his shoulder blades.

-

_“You should have said yes.”_

_Stiles leans against a wall. He’d found it the last time, surprised that there were boundaries to this place. Whatever it is._

_“I couldn’t,” Stiles says._

_“Why not?”_

_“…it wouldn’t have worked.”_

_Peter turns his head where it rests on the ground. He blinks slowly, blue eyes watching. Evaluating._

_“I knew there was something about you,” he says, quiet._

_The wolf lunges for his neck and Stiles lets it happen, the scream in his throat dying before it reaches his lips._

-

Stiles wakes in the middle of the woods.

It isn’t waking, though. He’s already standing, eyes open, and it’s a sudden snap into his body. It leaves him reeling, trying to reconcile the fact that his body has moved without his permission.

“What is it?”

Derek is staring, tense.

Scott is there, too. All the Betas.

“…why…,” Stiles manages, turning slowly.

He doesn’t really care that he’s shirtless, in flannel pants that are too thin for the cool night. He blinks, the spool of thought in his mind unraveling. He coughs, something wet in his mouth, and Erica inhales sharply.

“You’re bleeding,” Scott says, moving quickly, “are you hurt? What happened?”

Stiles looks down, a hand mechanically reaching up, and he watches the sticky blood fall onto it. It’s metallic on his tongue and he can smell it heavy in his nose.

 _Something’s wrong,_ he thinks, and then he passes out.

-

Scott watches him like a hawk at school.

Even the Betas do, which is strange, but he assumes it’s on Derek’s orders.

He thinks it’s ironic. He tries to avoid everyone, focusing on making it through the day. He wants to plan for the weekend- he thinks maybe he needs to stretch, find an empty space in the woods, but he doesn’t know where to go since Derek and his Betas are in the forest.

He resolves to drive a few miles out. Enough to keep his scent weak and confusing. He thinks it’ll work. It’s Friday, and the hours trudge by as slowly as usual, his heightened sense of urgency making it worse.

When the bell finally rings, he escapes, feeling only a little guilty when he loses Scott in the crowd.

-

_“I need your help.”_

_“No,” Stiles says, panic hammering in his chest._

_He knows what Peter wants. What it will cost._

_“I’m not dangerous. I just- I was wrong. I was hurt. I just want another chance. Please.”_

_“No,” he says, moving away, for the first time scared. “You died. You can’t come back. It’s not-,”_

_“I know it’s not right,” Peter says, pleading. “but I just want to tell him. Please. I need him to know. I need to make things right.”_

_“Don’t do this,” Stiles says, a whisper._

_This time, when the wolf bursts forth, he screams._

-

He wakes in the Hale house.

Derek is there, breathing hard, blinking away blue dust.

“No,” Stiles chokes, terrified, and he backs away.

“What are you doing?” Derek asks, voice heavy with pain.

Stiles shakes his head, looking around, frenzied. He looks for Peter, and when he doesn’t find him, he backs away.

_Am I going crazy?_

He almost trips. His foot scrapes against a ragged wooden board, bleeding. When he looks down, he sees the body.

Peter.

“Don’t,” Derek says, shaking his head. “Don’t do it, I won’t-,”

But Stiles’ head is buzzing and he can hear Peter, just like in the dreams, _Stiles, help me, please, you know,_ and he falls to his knees. They scrape against the wood, pajamas torn, but he tries to fight it.

The dreams come flooding back, conversations and whispers and the wolf, always the wolf. _It was real?_ But it can’t be real, he thinks, and he doesn’t know anymore because his brain is on fire and he can’t remember the last time he took his medicine.

 _It can’t be Derek,_ he thinks, feverish and confused. _It can’t be him._

It’s all he knows, somehow. He only has one choice.

He doesn’t know if it will work. If it doesn’t, Peter will use Derek, and then the power will make Peter crazy again. He thinks, morbidly amused, that it’s a good thing he’s not powerful.

He slumps, an arm dropping to the edge of the hole, and Peter’s claws sink in.

He can feel something draining from him. It’s almost like falling asleep.

He hears Derek scream something and he thinks, _how nice, maybe he does care,_ and then his eyelids slide shut.

-

He wakes up suddenly.

It’s becoming an unfortunate trend in his life.

He is aware of the wolves in the room- Scott, by his side, gasping as if he’s just run in, somehow oblivious to the laws of werewolves and how he shouldn’t be winded. Derek’s Betas, crowded close to their Alpha, tense.

Peter, enclosed in a circle of Ash and Wolfsbane.

“Stiles. Stiles, are you okay?” Scott asks, bending down.

There is blood in his nose again.

“He shouldn’t be alive,” Derek says, voice far away, “How is he alive?”

Stiles rolls onto his side, blinking, and he coughs. The convulsion makes him choke out blood and he watches it splatter against the floor, bright red.

 _No, no, no,_ he thinks, and his shoulder blades aren’t just itchy. They’re on fire.

“It doesn’t matter. Your uncle-,” Scott starts, and Peter tries to speak.

“I didn’t mean- I was only talking to him, I didn’t mean to do this, I never-,”

He sounds so sincere and Stiles wants to reassure him, say _I can’t imagine what it was like. To be dead, but not quite. Did you even know you could come back? That it was real? Or did you think it was a dream, too?_

He wonders if his mother ever felt that way. In her in-between state, when she was a fever walking. When the walls would warp and she would see a monster in place of her son, grinning and toothy, ready to rip into her.

 He feels weak but he tries to rise, arms shaking.

“I know,” he says, and it is all he can manage before he spits more blood onto the floor, forearms hitting the ground when his hands can’t take his weight.

“He’s dying,” Isaac says, and he sounds like a scared kid.

 _No,_ Stiles thinks. _But I will. When you find out and leave me._

“What do we do?” Scott asks.

His voice is shaky and Stiles feels a little knot of sorrow and pain. He sounds like he’s going to cry. _Best friends,_ he thinks.

_“Best friends!” Six-year-old Scott beams. “Best friends tell each other everything. And we can hang out. And play Nerf wars. And-,”_

“Best friends,” Stiles says, slurring the words because his throat feels raw and sore.

He can see Erica covering her mouth, eyes glossy, and even Jackson looks disturbed.

“No, no, Stiles- ,” Scott tries, turning him on his back, and it’s the most painful thing he could have done.

 _He doesn’t know any better,_ Stiles thinks when he arches off the ground, screaming a little. The pain in his throat flares hotter, piercing.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Derek says, voice uneven, and Stiles is surprised at the emotion.

He was never under the impression Derek liked him. The way he sounds, though, it’s as if it’s one of his Betas dying. He wonders about that, thinking _I hope I get answers in the afterlife if I die,_ and he knows what he has to do. He can’t wait.

“Move back,” he spits, entire body shaking, and he rolls back onto all fours.

“No- no, I’m not leaving you like this,” Scott says, desperate. “I’ll- I can…change you. I’ll-,”

“ _Back_ ,” Stiles commands, teeth grit, and he feels something move under his skin.

“What is that?” he hears Boyd ask. “Did it-,”

“No. It didn’t work,” Isaac says. “What’s happening? Derek? What is it going to do?”

“It’s eating him alive,” Derek says, sounding for all the world like he wants to rip his body open and swap out their insides. Keep Stiles alive.

 _He doesn’t know,_ Stiles thinks, and he has the consciousness to feel amused, if only a little. For once, Derek is not the all-knowing figure with all the answers. Withholding.

“I’m not going to watch the Bite kill him,” Scott says, angry and sad and crying.

“…it won’t,” Stiles breathes, sinking into himself, “It doesn’t work on me.”

He lets go, and it feels like floating in water, peaceful and directionless.

His wings unfurl easily, glorious, stretching towards the ceiling, blue-purple-black. He inhales, long and slow, and his body feels steady again. He can feel the magnetism in the air and he tilts his head to the hole in the ceiling where the moon is shining through.

He imagines he can feel the light on his body, silvery and cool, and the smell of blood gives way to the feeling of _right_.

When he breathes out, his wings fold in softly and he falls to the floor, sleep greeting him in its warm embrace.

-

When he wakes up, his wings are still folded neatly against his back. He is lying on his side on a couch, covered in a blanket.

“…they didn’t know where to put you,” Peter says, eyes red.

_They let him out of the circle?_

“…no. I guess they didn’t,” Stiles replies, shifting up to sit properly.

Peter looks tired. Resigned. Not like the man who had killed his niece. Stiles wonders if his eyes are red from being awake so long, or maybe because of the circle he was in. He wonders if Peter has been at his side the entire time.

“I knew there was something about you. A raven.”

“I hoped no one would notice. You’re wolves, though.”

“Ravens and wolves. Scientists still haven’t figured that one out.”

Stiles smiles a little and Peter returns the act, knowing. It’s odd, this thing they share, but Stiles thinks maybe he understands the man a little more. He wonders if it’s because he let go.

 _No more medication,_ he thinks. _No more hiding._

-

“What are you?” Scott asks, quiet.

“I don’t know,” Stiles says, because it’s true. “Mom knew. She never told me.”

“Was she…like you?”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know. When she got sick…I think maybe that was it. She hid it and it poisoned her.”

Derek watches him closely. It’s unnerving.

“It can happen to wolves,” the man says, “If we don’t change…we…,”

“Go crazy,” Stiles says softly, “Yeah.”

Scott, bless his heart, reaches out and puts his hand on Stiles’ shoulder.

“You don’t have to hide from us,” he says, “Not anymore.”

He tries to take it in stride, but it doesn’t work. All he can hear is _you don’t have to hide_ and he’s back in his house, hand bloodied and wrapped in an old t-shirt, watching his father drive his mother away. Watching and knowing that she would die, because what else could possibly happen? Without her magic-her wings- she would die, and Stiles was the one killing her.

Scott holds him when he cries quietly and he can see Derek’s face, perturbed, over his best friend’s shoulder.

 _I hope this isn’t going to be a problem,_ he thinks, and then he forgets about it for a blessed moment as his best friend comforts him.

-

“So…what can you do?” Isaac sounds unsure, inching down into the couch next to Stiles.

“What _can’t_ I do,” Stiles quips, smirking, and Scott shakes his head at him.

He still laughs, though.

Since the shift, Stiles has felt more _himself_. Brighter somehow. Sharper.

Isaac is still watching him, though, so he takes pity on the boy.

“I mean, there are a few things. I have _really_ good eyesight. A pretty innate sense of direction. My instincts are usually right,” he lists, twisting his body so that he can hang upside down.

“Like how?” Isaac asks, raising an eyebrow at the position.

“Um…I can…sometimes tell where you guys are,” Stiles mumbles, trying to play it off.

“You can what?”

_Goddamn it, Derek._

“Uh-,” Stiles starts, swallowing hard, and it feels weird upside down.

“What do you mean you can tell where we are?”

“…I assume you’ve heard about ravens and wolves,” Stiles starts, hedging around the answer.

“They’re usually found around one another,” Lydia interrupts, supportive.

 _God bless,_ Stiles thinks. _What a queen._

“Right. Sometimes ravens will call wolves to a carcass. The wolves will open it up for the ravens and they can usually eat side-by-side without any issues.”

“What does this have to do with finding us?” Derek asks, vaguely irritated.

_That’s Derek. At least where I’m involved. ‘Vaguely irritated and shove-y’._

“I don’t know,” Stiles admits, “but it’s…important. It’s just…a _thing_. Like magnetism. Like the bird part of me that gets put on track like a compass needle.”

He trails off a little then because he wonders _is this why I went into the woods that night_ , and then Derek’s talking again.

“So, you have an internal compass that points you towards wolves?”

He sounds so dry and sarcastic that Stiles snorts. It doesn’t feel good upside down so he swings his legs off the couch, righting himself.

“Sure, sourwolf. You could say that.”

And then Erica pipes up from where she’s entered by the kitchen.

“Can you fly?”

It’s the question he’s been expecting.

“…yeah.”

-

He gets to the house, pizza hot in the passenger’s seat, and he knows even before he’s on the property that something is wrong.

 _Please don’t let anyone be dying or dead,_ he thinks, and he doesn’t have time to consider how wrong that is.

He opens his door to hear a roar- _a wolf,_ he thinks- and then he sees Jackson go flying.

He _should_ be enjoying the scene. He isn’t.

“You’re a Beta,” Derek growls, loud.

 _…aaaand that’s why,_ Stiles thinks, watching Scott hesitate, somewhere between the two, watching things unfold. He’s wolfed-out and on edge.

“You’re an asshole,” Jackson spits back, the cut on his lip already sewing itself up.

“You’re _both_ assholes and the pizza’s getting cold,” Stiles interrupts, gingerly walking around the front of his car.

There is a momentary pause- it’s been routine since Stiles’ reveal- but then the two wolves turn back towards each other, breathing heavily, agitated.

“I’m not your bitch,” Jackson says, the words immolating.

“No, you’re my _Beta,_ ” Derek says, and when he steps forward Jackson lunges.

“For the love of-,” Stiles starts, exasperated, and then he sidesteps when the two go barreling past him.

“Jackson isn’t taking Derek’s training well-,” Scott says, and he starts following the two.

“Yeah, no shit,” Stiles says.

He hears the door swing open and the sound of feet crunching over leaves. The Betas, he thinks, are finally coming to investigate.

“What a mess,” Isaac mutters, hands in his pockets.

“This is stupid,” Erica announces, tossing her hair.

“Pizza?” Boyd asks.

 _Jesus,_ Stiles thinks, _Derek’s really screwed up._ He isn’t sure they wouldn’t cover each other’s asses in a life-or-death situation, but the lack of involvement at the moment isn’t reassuring.

“Get the pizza,” Stiles commands, shrugging off his plaid shirt.

Erica blinks, staring. Isaac looks at him like he’s grown another head. He ignores them, pulling at his shirt. _No time to feel self-conscious,_ he thinks. _Besides, they’re werewolves. We all know who’s attractive around here._

“What are you doing?” Scott asks, sounding a little anxious but very excited. _Leave it to Scott to get excited about this when the situation involves two werewolves hitting each other._

“My job,” Stiles says, rolling his shoulders, and then the soft ripple of his wings echo in the night.

He feels a little pleased when he hears Erica’s delighted gasp.

As it is, he enjoys the stretch in his shoulders when he takes off. Lacrosse isn’t really the same- it was always a substitute for him; exercising, stretching, imagining the labor of invisible wings. Now, it feels good to have the air filter through them, between feathers, ruffling.

It’s easy to find the two errant wolves. They’re predictably close to the house, Jackson kicking Derek off as he rises from where he’s fallen on his back.

 _Time to stop this,_ he thinks.

He drops from the sky, wings snapping close to his body, and the wind whistles in his ears. _Bombs away,_ he thinks, amused as he aims for a spot just next to the fighting pair.

Before he hits the ground his wings snap open with a _crack_ , a blast of air moving like an intangible wall.

He watches the two wolves hit the ground, knocked off their feet, and can’t help but smile a little.

“I have arrived,” he announces, fluttering his wings a little, lazily stretching and folding them.

“Stiles-,” Derek starts, and he sounds a little bit wrecked.

He _looks_ wrecked. Stiles isn’t sure if it’s the fight- his cheeks have high spots of red and he’s breathing heavily- but there’s also a strange light in his eyes.

_Strange._

“No, sensei, I think it’s time for _you_ to learn from a student,” Stiles says, ignoring him. “I know you _think_ you know what to do- and maybe you do, in practice. But you have a lot to learn.”

“This isn’t your problem, Stilinski,” Jackson says, spitting blood onto the leaf-carpeted ground.

“Except it _is._ You’re my problem. Even if I’m not yours. You may hate me, Jackson, but I don’t really hate you. And Derek- you’re fond of slamming me into hard objects, but I’ve got my wings out now. It won’t happen again.”

Derek looks guilty and Stiles thinks _good_. _That’ll teach him._

“Derek, you can’t _beat_ your Betas into submission. That’s not how this works. You want a friend- you want a _team_ \- you build that on trust. On respect. Not violence. All you’re doing is driving them away.”

“I shouldn’t be _asking_ for respect,” Derek says, and before he can finish Stiles snorts.

“What, you inherently _deserve_ it? Maybe you can Alpha-force your Betas into submission, but what makes you think they’ll stay? Being a dick isn’t going to make them respect you.”

Derek is quiet for a minute. Jackson glances at Stiles, looking a little impressed. Just a little.

“He’s right,” Jackson says, serious, and Stiles almost has a heart attack, “you may have made us this way, but we’re not sticking around for your bullshit if you keep treating us like kids.”

“You _are_ kids,” Derek says, voice breaking a little, and Stiles thinks _oh._

_Oh._

“Derek,” he says, voice falling a little, “We may be _kids_ to you. That doesn’t mean we’re incompetent.”

The woods are quiet. He can hear feet approaching, swift, so he shifts back, ready to fly. _This isn’t a conversation for me._

“Talk to them,” he says, more suggesting than commanding.

And then he leaves.

-

_The room is dark. He can’t breathe. It is suffocating, hot, wet, static._

_There is a figure in the corner. She bares her teeth, ragged nails digging into bloodied knees. He can’t see her face past the dark curtain of her hair, tangled and knotted._

_Water drips onto the floor, echoing in the deep._

_Someone opens a door, bluish light filtering in, and the voice is like nails on a chalkboard to abused ears._

_“Claudia? I’m here. I’m here. Stiles-,”_

_The woman struggles, trying to get up from bed. The medication is heavy in her blood. Stiles knows she must be seeing something- knows she is stuck in some other hell. Whatever it is, she lunges for him, screaming and fighting._

_“He wants to kill me! He wants to-,”_

-

Lacrosse.

It’s a good sport, Stiles thinks. It helps take his mind off things.

With the new Betas, training has become increasingly entertaining.

“Move it!” Derek barks, arms crossed where he leans against the railing of the porch.

Jackson growls back, but there’s no bite to it. He’s chasing Erica, who is gleefully waving one of his nicer leather jackets in her hand.

“Come on!” Isaac shouts, further away, and he’s making Scott chase him for a cookie.

 _Priorities,_ Stiles thinks, amused.

“They’re doing better,” Stiles says, swinging his legs.

“…they are,” Derek says, glancing up at Stiles where he sits on the banister.

“You’re doing better.”

He grins, and maybe it’s the sun on his wings or the bonds of the pack but he feels better than he has in years.

Derek blinks as if the sun’s too bright, mouth hanging open a little, and Stiles waits.

“I-,”

“Hey, Stiles, can you _carry_ someone when you fly?”

Erica’s eyes are merry and curious and Stiles feels blessed to see her like this, so free and excited and happy. He glances at Derek, watching the man duck his head to hide his smile, and thinks _I have time._

“I don’t know. I’ve never tried.”

“You should,” Peter pipes up cautiously, arms crossed defensively, standing by the door.

He’s not allowed to leave the house.

It makes Stiles a little angry and sad, but he knows that for now the man is on probation. He just hopes that Peter can find his way back to shore, pulling on the unbreakable tie between Derek and himself. When he finally does come back, regardless of how whole he is, Stiles thinks he’ll be ready to welcome the man.

“Oh? You wanna volunteer to take a ride?”

“Always,” Peter says cheekily, winking.

Stiles snorts and Erica makes a face at the man.

“You should train,” Derek says, a little stony because he’s talking- however indirectly- about Peter.

“Right,” Stiles sighs, hopping off the banister. “All right, sourwolf. Come on, Erica. You can spot me.”

-

Peter is sitting on a stool on the other side of the wall and Stiles is fed up.

He’s noticed- he isn’t oblivious- that the others skirt around him. As if he’s tainted. As if he has some kind of mark that makes associating with him bad. It’s expected, given the man’s past.

But it’s not quite right.

Stiles can understand the bad blood with Derek- Peter killed Laura. Still, it’s a little bit of a game-changer when the person in question has died and come back to life. It’s essentially a resurrection round. One more start to try again.

“Hey. Come on, creeper wolf. The lasagna isn’t going to eat itself.”

Peter looks up at him, a little startled, and his gaze seems to ask if Stiles is on medication.

Which he _is,_ but.

“…I’ll wait,” the man supplies, cautious, glancing into the bustling kitchen.

“You wait and there won’t be any left,” Stiles sighs, reaching for the man’s arm.

He tries not to be too heartbroken when Peter flinches at the touch. Instead, he keeps his grip loose, guiding the man towards the table. _Reassuring touches. Reinforce the idea that it isn’t bad._

Lydia glances up from her plate, a little stiff, but something about the way she evaluates Peter seems to say she’s pleased with Stiles’ choice. Or at least as pleased as she could possibly be. She’s certainly not scared. Wary, maybe, but willing to extend a thin line. That’s all he needs.

“Move your beautiful ass,” Stiles tells Jackson, adding an extra chair.

“It _is_ beautiful,” Jackson says, snarky as usual.

Stiles loads Peter’s plate because it’s probably a little too soon to ask the man to voluntarily put himself out there. He adds extra, too, because he never sees Peter eat and he expects the man sneaks around the house at 3 am scavenging for food.

The dinner starts a little awkwardly. Quiet.

“I didn’t know my lasagna was _that_ good,” Stiles quips, a little acid, and Scott smiles nervously.

“Your food is always good, Stiles,” he says, trying, and Stiles thinks _god bless his heart of gold._

-

“Stilinski,” Jackson calls.

Stiles blinks, in the midst of pulling equipment on, and turns.

“…um-,”

“Watch out,” he says, not quite looking at him, and he claps his shoulder before walking away.

To anyone watching, it would seem like Jackson is doing his usual shitty intimidation tactic. To Stiles- with his odd raven-mind and experience with the pack- it’s reassuring. As if Jackson is _looking out for him_.

Stiles looks at Scott, lost, and his best friend shrugs.

They take the field- or at least the others do- and Stiles sits on the bench, antsy. Even before Jackson he’d felt an itch between his shoulders; it’s a tension, mounting under his skin. He thinks something is going to happen.

It’s only when the lights go out and the screams echo in his ears that he knows with cold certainty that he was right.

-

He wakes in the back of some sort of van- someone is dragging him, heavy cloth over his eyes. He tries to get his bearings, feet scrambling beneath his body, and the toe of his shoe hits the edge of a step.

He tries to inhale, categorize the smell and temperature, hoping to get some hint of where he is. When the hood is lifted from his head, he realizes he doesn’t have to guess.

Erica and Boyd are tied with some sort of electrical wire, their faces vaguely bruised and scratched. He watches their eyes widen when they see him.

Even in the dark basement their terror is bright. It blazes like lighting.

“Did you wonder why they weren’t at the game?” Gerard asks, amused, and Stiles wants to vomit.

“You know, I figured it was homework- we’re high school kids, things to do-,”

A blow hits his ribs and he wheezes a little, bending over himself. He can hear Erica trying to scream through the gag in her mouth and he feels immediately worse. _I don’t want them hurt,_ he thinks, trying to categorize his injuries. _I don’t want them to see this._

“You know, Allison used to tell me about you. Scott’s friend. Class clown. You’ll never really be anything,” the man muses.

_What an asshole. I don’t know how Allison turned out well. Maybe that was Chris. He’s pretty gorgeous, too. Wait- focus, Stiles-_

“Okay, listen- I don’t know why we’re here, or if you just have a thing for torturing kids-,”

And another kick bruises his legs, something else cold as it strikes his back. He falls to his knees, pain escaping through grit teeth. _Was that a pipe? It was a pipe. What is he, a Mafioso?_

Erica and Boyd struggle.

 _I can’t open my wings here,_ he thinks. _I’d get hurt. And then he’d know._

“I know what they are. And you- did you think they’d change you? Or were you just hoping to be important?”

“Change? Me? Have you seen me? I’m perfect,” Stiles laughs breathlessly.

He loses count of the blows after that. All he can hear is his friends struggling and all he can think is _please let me get help in time._

-

He’s standing in his room, staring at the glass board.

He doesn’t hear the footsteps storming up the staircase. They are rapid and worried, and when Lydia opens the door he doesn’t notice her for a full minute.

“…es. Stiles,” she says, walking around him, “What happened?”

“…we need to get Derek. And the others,” he says, throwing his jacket on.

He watches her face change, a storm rolling and shifting. Anger. Worry. Calculations.

“Is that blood? Are you-,”

“ _Now_ , Lydia!” he almost yells, anxiety and desperation flooding his system.

He doesn’t remember driving to Derek’s. He can barely listen to Lydia’s questions until they stop- she gives in, allowing him his space, and he’s grateful for it. He feels like an asshole for shutting her out but at this point, his rage and fury have condensed into something unpleasant.

When they pull up to the house, Scott is already there with Isaac and Jackson. Derek emerges quickly, Peter trailing just to the porch.

“Are you hurt? I smelled blood-,”

It’s not the first thing he expected to hear from Derek.

“Gerard has Boyd and Erica,” he says, pulling a baseball bat from the trunk.

“What? How-,”                                                                                                      

“He took me from the game. I don’t know how he got them- they’re in a basement, I think. Probably the Argent’s.”

“Wait- did you see Allison? Or Chris?” Scott asks.

“No- just Gerard. I don’t know if they know, but we need to get to them. _Now_.”

“We can’t just storm their house,” Derek says, even as his voice is strained, “They’re Hunters.”

“I understand,” Scott says, “and I can take responsibility. But we _have_ to go. Maybe Chris and Allison don’t know-,”

“And if they do? What then? We just kill all of them?” Isaac asks.

“We’re not killing anyone,” Scott says heatedly.

“No, but Gerard might,” Stiles interrupts, agitated, “Listen- Scott, Lydia, and I are going to talk to the Argents. If they don’t know, we call the cavalry in for backup. Until then, the rest of you need to wait. Preferably a block or more away.”

“I don’t like this,” Derek says, moving closer as the others jump into action.

His eyes are flickering, threatening a glow, and Stiles feels paradoxically safer. _Angry werewolves shouldn’t make me feel safe,_ he thinks distantly, but logic and feeling don’t really coincide.

“I know. I know they heal, but Gerard knows how to get around that. They don’t need more pain in their lives, Derek.”

“They’re going to have some. They’re werewolves.”

He sounds miserable. Stiles wonders, if this is always a problem, how he ever decides to give people the Bite. He wonders if Derek was ever sure. _When do the benefits start to outweigh the costs?_ It makes him feel a little better to know that Derek still worries, though. It means he cares.

“Okay,” he says, placating, because the flickering is getting more insistent, “So we find them. Now, before they’re in more trouble. They’ll be fine.”

“They’ll be fine,” Derek repeats, sounding as if he wants to agree, but really it’s like a prayer.

When he says it, he’s saying _Please let them be fine._

-

“Stiles-,” Chris starts, eyes immediately sharp, and he sidesteps to let them in, “What happened?"

 _He doesn’t know,_ Stiles thinks automatically. He’s relieved. He seems like a good man. It would be a shame if he was in league with the crazy old Hunter.

“Is Allison home?” Scott asks, and Lydia shoots him a look.

“She’s studying,” Chris says, eyes narrowing, and he searches a cupboard, pulling out a first-aid kit, “What is this about?”

“I really _hate_ to tell you this, but Gerard has Erica and Boyd,” Stiles interrupts, deciding there’s no time for tiptoeing around the situation.

Not when lives are in danger.

“He _what_?”

“Do you know where he could have taken them? Stiles said it seemed like a basement,” Lydia interrupts, worried.

“…if he’s taken them, I don’t think you should go looking. He’s trained,” Chris starts, and Stiles can feel their chances slipping.

“Listen. I know he’s family. I get that. But he has two of our friends tied up, and it looked like he’d been torturing them when I was dragged there. We don’t want to kill him- we just want our friends back. Please.”

Chris pauses, and Stiles can see his indecision. _Let ‘kids’ go after Gerard? Or do it alone, and risk lies or threats? Risk losing Erica and Boyd?_ He has a daughter. Stiles knows, more than anything, what the struggle of a parent looks like. He’s seen it on his father’s face- when the man tries to make difficult decisions, usually involving Stiles’ safety.

“Lydia, will you stay with Allison?” Chris asks, giving in.

“…yes,” Lydia says.

Stiles can tell she hates staying behind, but she’s worried about her friend. _Allison’s been through enough already. If Lydia can help her, maybe it’ll be easier for all of us._

“Scott, I know Derek’s out there somewhere. You can tell him to follow me.”

-

They’re in the middle of the woods. It’s a cool night, dead leaves crackling underfoot, and Stiles wonders whether it isn’t too much like a year before.

Kate screaming into the night, the sound cut off by blood and choking.

Peter howling at the moon.

“It’s a small space,” Chris says, climbing out of his car. “so once you’re in, keep an eye out. He’ll be dangerous in close quarters. He might have aconite on him.”

“We’ll try to get him outside,” Derek offers, following the man further into the trees, “We won’t hurt him. We just want the kids back.”

“I understand,” Chris says, quiet.

 _Lying and being lied to,_ Stiles thinks. _All these problems that never end. Recirculating._

“Scott, Isaac, you’re with me. Stiles, I want you to stay in the car-,”

“No.”

It’s immediate and Derek stops in his tracks, turning. Chris pauses.

“This _isn’t_ -,”

“I know what it is. I’m going in,” Stiles says, firm.

“You’re not trained,” Chris says shortly, “I know you want to help, but that bunker is going to be filled with werewolves and Hunters. We don’t know if Gerard is working with anyone else. If you go in, you’re a liability.”

“Oh, I’m trained,” Stiles says mildly, and then he turns west, “-and they’re this way.” Chris watches him, calculating, and Derek shakes his head once. _Not a werewolf._

But the man can tell, Stiles thinks. He can sense something _other_. Stiles wonders if Gerard will be able to sense it, too.

He doesn’t have to wonder long.

“Chris. It’s nice to see you,” Gerard says, smiling, “What are you doing out here?”

 _With him?_ It’s the unspoken part, but the way the old man looks at Derek makes it clear.

“What are you doing?”

“Cleaning house.”

It’s the sick smile that makes Stiles’ shoulders itch. _He’s laughing. At all of us._

“I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but they’re _kids_. Even if they’ve done something, you need to let them go,” Chris tries.

 _The thing is, he knows,_ Stiles thinks. _And he doesn’t believe it. To him, they’re monsters. Animals. He can’t see that Allison goes to the same school. Is friends with some of them. That we have families. Dreams._

“You know what they are,” Gerard says, quiet.

“They’re innocent,” Chris says, “Or have they done something you haven’t told me about?”

“Just let them go,” Scott says, “Please. I don’t know what your problem with them is, but at least let us talk about it.”

 _There it is._ The twist to his lips, a sneer maybe. A disinterested glance that seems to measure him up, deciding that if he could have anything in the world Gerard would want him gone. Him and all the others.

Stiles is done talking.

“Let them out, or I will _get_ them,” he says, cold, and the others seem surprised. As if they forgot he was there.

Gerard tilts his head, eyes amused and sparkling.

“Stilinski. Your father is a good man.”

He says it as if he holds one over him. Stiles can feel his wings itch to unfold, the rippling of something not quite magic cascading down his spine. He doesn’t let them out, though.

It’s a last resort.

“I’m not asking again,” Stiles says, short and monotonous. He steps forward.

He can feel the others move, the unspoken _wait_ on their lips, but his senses are sharp when there is movement in the trees.

If it weren’t for his eyes- his wonderful, terrible bird’s eyes- he would never have known.

He sees the figure, a spark of silver, and he hits the ground.

Someone yells- he thinks it’s Scott- and Chris is running towards Gerard. Stiles rolls, alert, and springs to his feet. The door to the bunker is still open.

He makes his way in, quick, but before he goes he takes a nervous look at the scene behind him. There are hunters- three or four, he can’t quite keep track- and the others are fighting. Trying, to their credit, to only incapacitate. Isaac and Scott, Derek, Chris.

For a moment, he feels the sting of indecision. His instinct tells him to stay. Fight. His brain tells him that Erica and Boyd need his help.

He slams the door behind him, not locking it because he isn’t sure there aren’t others inside. The place is damp, the smell of earth permeating everything. It sets him on edge. It feels like being buried alive.

 _Wow,_ he thinks once he finds a door. _He didn’t really plan this. It wasn’t very smart to leave this place unguarded._

He looks at the door, examining the lock, and decides he doesn’t have time to find a key.

It’s a good thing he’s the sheriff’s kid.

He braces himself, points the gun, and shoots. His ears ring but he knocks the lock off, quick, and kicks the door open. The room rushes out to greet him- stale air, the faint scent of blood and burning.

Erica is the first to raise her head. Her eyes are defiant- stronger than her usual gaze, although it’s always been like this- and he can’t imagine her backing down from her captor. Boyd looks up then, too, calm and calculating.

“I’m getting you out of here,” Stiles breathes, relief flooding his system because they don’t look too injured.

Erica’s eyes are bright, as if maybe she’s going to cry, but he can’t take the time to wonder because there are growls and gunshots outside. He takes a knife to everything, cutting electric cords and kicking the circle of mountain ash aside.

Erica spits and coughs when he takes the tape off her mouth.

“Stiles, he has Hunters with him,” Erica starts, worried.

“I know. The others are dealing with them.”

“Allison- she didn’t know.”

“Lydia’s with her now. Chris is here,” Stiles says.

He can’t say he’s not relieved to hear Allison has nothing to do with the kidnapping. He knows she has a lot to deal with- Kate’s death, her mother’s attack and death- and there are valid reasons for her to hate werewolves. He can’t help but hope that she understands, though. If she won’t be their friend, he at least hopes she won’t be an enemy.

“Who’s here?” Boyd asks when he’s cut free, rubbing his wrists.

“Derek. Jackson. Scott, Isaac. Chris.”

“We have to help-,” Erica starts, and Stiles holds his hand up.

“No,” he says, commanding, and the two Betas look at him in disbelief.

“Stiles-,” Boyd starts, explaining, but he cuts them off again.

“I don’t know what you two have been through. What he did to you. Do _you_ even know? I’m not taking chances. He took you for a reason, and we came for _you_. We’re not losing you.”

They hesitate, a moment of indecision stopping them, and he prepares himself to do whatever he needs to keep them safe.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

-

It’s hell outside, but when they step out of the doorway it’s clear the wolves have won.

Gerard is facing his son, something like fury boiling beneath the surface.

“They are a _threat_ to this town.”

“They’re _kids_ , they’re not _threats_ ,” Chris says firmly, looking a little lost.

Stiles feels horrible for him.

He knows this feeling. The conversation. Looking at family, someone you knew once, and wondering if you ever knew them. If this has always been true, or if it’s something you can fix. Change.

Gerard sees him, the way he’s holding Erica and Boyd on either side. Something dark enters his eyes. He thinks maybe it’s hatred.

“We’re leaving,” Stiles says, “Scott. Derek.”

He’s not sure when- _if_ \- he gained authority, but somehow, the two werewolves follow his lead. Isaac and Jackson are there quickly, supporting, and Stiles nods at Chris.

There’s an unspoken communication there, he thinks. The man looks at him, searching, and Stiles tries to tell him _I understand_.

Because he does. He understands broken families all too well.

-

They’re just getting to the Hale house when Stiles feels it.

An itch between his shoulders.

“Stop,” he says, sudden, and he hits the brakes.

The Jeep jolts a little- just a tiny bit, and he watches Boyd and Erica glance up from their places, sandwiched between Jackson and Isaac. Their wounds are already beginning to knit themselves back together. Scott looks at him from the passenger seat, questioning. Derek skids to a halt before them, brake lights blinking, and then the man slips out of his car.

Stiles doesn’t notice. He’s listening.

He can feel a pull. It tugs at him, somewhere in his heart- or maybe somewhere deeper. Further within. He grips the steering wheel harder, breathing heavily, and the pain aches in his chest. He can hear words- something the Betas are saying, or asking, and then someone pulls the car door open and turns his head with callused hands.

“Stiles. Look at me. What is it?”

 _His eyes are hazel,_ he thinks, and it’s an innocuous detail that makes no sense but it’s all he can think for a moment.

“Peter,” he breathes, and a flash of tumultuous emotions tumble across Derek’s face.

Surprise. Hesitation. Worry. Guilt.

“What-,”

“Hunters at the house,” he says, suddenly sure, and he rips his seatbelt off, jumping from his seat. “Scott, drive.”

“Where are you going?” Derek asks, tense, but his tone says he knows.

“I’m going to surprise them. Get to the house. And be _careful_.”

He winces when his wings tear his shirt, the sound breaking the quiet night. It feels good, though- something about the moon on his feathers feels right. _Good_. So he stretches, preparing, and thinks drily that it’s a good thing he’s a dark bird, or they’d see him coming a mile away.

-

He lands in a tree close to the porch.

The first thing he sees is Peter. The man is on his knees, the smell of blood heavy in the air. He is shaking minutely- Stiles wonders if it’s wolfsbane. He feels a small flicker of rage in his chest; he can tell the man wouldn’t let them inside. He thinks the doors are probably locked, and the Hunters wouldn’t have wanted things to look suspicious.

Rather than let them in the house, Peter had gone out to them.

 _I’m proud of you, Creeper Wolf,_ he thinks.

The two cars roll up to the house, slowing when they approach the intruders.

Three Hunters. Stiles watches Derek exit his car, cautious. He leans down on the branch he’s perched on, listening.

“What do you want?”

He resists the urge to roll his eyes, telling himself Derek is buying time.

“Oh, look. You got the other two,” one of the Hunters says, watching Erica and Boyd step out of the Jeep.

Jackson steps in front of them, defiant, and Stiles feels proud all over again. _They’re getting closer,_ he thinks. _Those bonds will help them survive._

“Go back to Gerard,” Derek says. “He’s finished. This is over.”

One of the Hunters kicks Peter and Stiles growls, nails digging painfully into bark. He can see the man’s head tilt a little. _He knows I’m here._

_Good. Then he’s ready. I’m not waiting any longer._

He dives from the tree, almost silent except for the soft _woosh_ of air. He hits the three Hunters easily, landing square on one man’s back. When he steps off, he moves to Peter, ignoring the Hunters. He knows Derek and the others can take care of them.

“You okay, creeper?”

Peter smiles a little past the blood dried on his mouth. There’s telltale blue powder at his neck.

“Never better, _fylgja_.”

The nickname makes him inordinately pleased.

“Huginn or Muninn?”

“Both. Both is good,” the man winces, rising, his hand heavy on Stiles’ shoulder.

“Chris will pick them up,” Derek interrupts, glancing at his uncle even as he speaks to Stiles.

“M-hmm. So. Anything you want to say?” Stiles waits.

Derek pauses, conflicted. Stiles can see the struggle playing out under the man’s serious face. _Trust my uncle? Or not trust my sister’s killer?_

“You didn’t let them in.”

_Well, that’s not exactly what I had in mind…_

“It’s home,” Peter says quietly, and Stiles wants to hug the man, “…I would never.”

Derek nods a little, staring, as if he thinks he’s talking to his uncle again and he’s not sure how to feel about it.

“Thank you.”

-

It catches him off guard.

They’re in the backyard and Stiles is watching them train. Erica, Boyd, and Jackson. Isaac is with Scott- it’s a shift, Derek had explained quietly one day, an unseen bond of loyalty- and Lydia is watching primly from the porch.

Stiles, meanwhile, is perched on the roof.

“You know, it makes sense,” he muses.

“What does?” Lydia indulges him, relaxing in her chair.

They’re different. Somehow, he thinks, Lydia has become one of his best friends. It’s odd, considering he used to use her as his only tie to normality. A crush built on respect that always existed. He’s not sure when that crush became love of a different kind. It’s strong; he thinks, humorously, if they each stay single for their lives (impossible for Lydia) then they’ll end up marrying in their late forties for the legal benefits.

“The Packs. I mean, it’s not exactly like I _knew_ it would happen- it’s just, it makes sense. Magnets,” He tries to explain, failing miserably.

Lydia raises an eyebrow- he can _hear_ it, honestly- and takes a sip from her lemonade.

“Shouldn’t you be training, too?”

“Yes,” Peter interrupts, chipper, and he emerges from the house in a gray hoodie.

He’s allowed further out now. Derek’s still watching him, but it’s an improvement.

“Fine,” Stiles pretends to complain, watching Erica wait for Boyd and Jackson to finish, “Hey!”

“What?”

“Come on, wolf girl. Time to practice with a person. Ish.”

Erica grins and runs over, raising her arms above her head. He laughs a little, trying to memorize her excited gaze. He can feel eyes on him- it’s his first time trying to fly with a person, really.

“Okay,” he says, getting to his feet, rotating his arms, “Bear with me.”

He steps off the roof, careful not to knock his wings on anything, and reaches down. Her hands are firm in his, gripping as he hovers. He waits for a moment, getting used to the weight, and then starts to climb a little.

“If you drop me, bird boy, I’ll bite you,” Erica threatens, but she’s laughing too much to sound serious.

He laughs, climbing a little further, and watches her wiggle her bare feet in the air.

“Okay- this isn’t bad, right? How about we try going around the house?”

“Go for it,” she yells up at him.

So he does.

He’s nervous the entire time, hoping he doesn’t drop her even though he knows it wouldn’t hurt that much. They’re by the porch again when Derek calls up to him.

“Why don’t we try having someone attack you? You should probably learn how to fall.”

Erica’s hands grip him a little tighter.

“Is that a good idea-,” she starts, tense, and even Scott pauses in the middle of sparring with Isaac.

“It’s fine, Catwoman,” Stiles tries, letting her down carefully. “I should practice. I know how, in theory- it’ll be better to learn here than when Hunters are after us. Besides, you all should know how to take something like me down.”

“I don’t think-,” Peter starts, voice low, and Stiles feels a twinge of regret.

“It doesn’t matter,” Derek says shortly, and he probably doesn’t mean it the way it sounds but it makes Stiles angry all the same.

_He gets a say. Everyone does._

“Jackson,” Derek commands, and to his credit, the boy looks reticent, “Work with him.”

Stiles watches Jackson walk over, hesitant, and he tries to smile encouragingly.

“Don’t go easy on me,” he says cheekily, staying just at roof height.

Jackson lunges, running and jumping.

It takes him a second to register the sudden drop in altitude, his mind processing too many things at once. He’s winded, breath vacating his lungs as his body suddenly feels too heavy and human. His wings feel the pressure, and he tries to tuck them in but he’s a little too slow and one clips the house.

The spark of pain isn’t terrible- he hasn’t broken anything, he knows, but there’s a sudden flurry of movement and Jackson is torn off, hitting the ground as a snarling Peter intercedes.

“Whoa-,” Stiles starts, startled, but Derek is suddenly approaching, eyes glowing and teeth dropped.

The Betas freeze, assessing, and Lydia is gripping her glass with white knuckles on the porch. Derek is still walking over and Stiles scrambles to his feet, wincing when his wing twinges.

“Peter,” he says, watching the man maintain his position at Stiles’ side, “stop. Sit down,” he says, for lack of anything better to say.

And then, in the blink of an eye, Peter is sitting on the porch, blinking, arms resting on his legs.

The air of confusion is about as thick as soup.

“Uh- sorry, Stilinski,” Jackson says, blinking as he gets to his feet. He casts Peter a confused look.

“No worries,” Stiles replies, watching Derek where he’s stuck to the ground a foot away.

It’s pretty funny, actually, the way Derek is open-mouthed, fangs still sharp even as his eyes have stopped imitating glow-sticks.

“You listened to him,” Derek says.

Peter just stares at his nephew. Something below the surface, though, makes Stiles pause. It’s an undercurrent of confusion. Disbelief. _Pleasure?_

“Oh, god, don’t tell me you’re turned on,” Stiles blurts, forgetting everything else for a moment. “Jesus, Peter, this isn’t the time for your kink.”

Erica practically snorts her water out of her nose. As it is she coughs for nearly a minute straight, red-faced.

Peter sighs. He ignores Stiles, choosing to answer Derek instead.

“I did. You should try it sometime. He’s usually right.”

“Usually? If by usually you mean _always_ ,” Stiles snorts, but his heart is racing.

_Is this what I think it is?_

“…he can’t be,” Derek says, voice a little distant, and he shakes his head.

“What do you mean?” Scott asks, moving closer, looking between his best friend and the man on the porch. “You- you think-?”

“He can’t be Peter’s Alpha,” Derek says, but even he sounds like he doesn’t believe himself.

“How can a _bird_ be a _wolf’s_ Alpha?” Isaac asks, nose wrinkled in confusion.

_God, he’s adorable. No wonder he’s part of Scott’s pack._

“Um, not to interrupt your Scooby-Dooing, but you _do_ remember I technically brought him back to life?”

“But you’re not a werewolf,” Derek argues, “so it shouldn’t matter.”

“Maybe. I don’t care,” Peter says airily, rising from the porch. His hands are careful when they examine Stiles’ wing. “Works for me. Rather him than you.”

Peter winks at his nephew and Stiles chokes on his laughter, trying to ignore how good it feels for _someone_ to actually touch his wings.

 _Two of a kind,_ he thinks. _Maybe our Packs are like that. We all follow the ones who are like us._

He wonders what it says about him that Peter is his ‘Beta’.

-

It’s a sleepover. A massive, overpowered teenager sleepover.

The idea was initially Stiles’, except he’d strategically floated it to Isaac because no one can say no to his face. And they hadn’t.

“Someone should take this hot dog things away before I pour them all into my mouth,” Jackson says, muffled by the croissant-wrapped bite in his mouth.

“We know you’re bi, Jackson, no need to lay it on,” Stiles snarks, catching the broccoli thrown at his head and munching it down.

“Have you tried Erica’s macaroni? I want her to make macaroni for the rest of my life,” Scott says, spooning another enormous heap onto his plate.

“Stupid werewolves and their stupid metabolisms,” Stiles grumbles, glancing around the spread of food. He realizes he left his backpack in his Jeep and he sighs, turning to slip out the front door.

It’s a beautiful night. Most of them are- it’s the middle of nowhere, California, after all- but this one is especially nice. Gerard is taken care of for the moment, they’ve had months of peace, and everyone is getting settled. The Packs are stabilizing and Derek is gradually learning to work with instead of above everyone else.

If he’s being honest, that’s Stiles’ favorite part. He’s always like the man more than he should- the sarcasm and quiet had drawn him in. Except Derek had been gross in the beginning, hypocritical and threatening. Now, it’s like he’s realized just how much of a kid he is, too.

Well. A very well-muscled and attractive kid.

“What’s wrong?”

“ _Je_ sus,” Stiles breathes, almost jumping off the last few stairs. He sighs, trying to control his pounding heart. “I should put a bell on you. Sure you’re not a werecat?”

“I still like water,” Derek says mildly, glancing up at the moon.

Stiles snorts, laughter bubbling up in his throat. He barely cares about how it sounds- uneven, stilted, maybe unattractive. All he knows is that everything is fine in the world tonight and he’s with people he loves.

“Do you? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you swim. Maybe that’s a lie-,” he starts, talking through his laughter.

It happens when he pulls his backpack out, swinging it, a tiny _whoosh_ of air passing between them. Derek blinks, nostrils flaring for the briefest moment, eyes fighting a werewolf glow. Stiles can see the man’s jaw clench, his lips barely parting as if he’s about to say something.

“…what…?” Derek manages, sounding like he’s having a hard time making words work. He blinks, out of focus, fighting to keep a neutral expression. “Um…the smell-,”

“Oh,” Stiles says, startled and suddenly dry-mouthed, “Just…um…I made pie?”

He is unbearably confused but honestly doesn’t care because he’s never really had someone look at him the way Derek is staring. Not like they’re…hungry. Or in a haze. It makes him feel both powerful and vulnerable all at once and he finds himself thinking _I’m going to bake pies for the rest of my life._ Whatever he made in the kitchen clearly gave him more of an edge than any cologne ever has.

“Oh. That’s…that was nice,” Derek says, still fumbling, almost subconsciously stepping closer.

“Yeah. I’m really nice,” Stiles says, thinking _we sound like a really bad porno, I wonder if those shitty lines are actually realistically dumb_.

He can almost count Derek’s stupidly pretty eyelashes. He can see the man’s freckles. All he wants is to step closer- just an inch, he tells himself, and there won’t be anything left between them. Nothing but the richness of Derek’s perpetual pine scent, the forest clinging to him like a warm blanket.

 _Come on,_ he urges in his mind, _do it. Please._

They’re close enough that their noses touch and Stiles is on the verge of giving in when the front door slams open and Derek practically _teleports_ backwards. Stiles sighs, frustrated, eyes closing for a brief second.

“Hey. Need help?” Isaac asks, hands in his pockets. Stiles can’t be mad at him.

Frustrated, maybe. Not mad.

“Sure. Grab my bat,” Stiles says, glancing at still-immobile Derek as he shoulders his backpack, “I may have to use it to knock some sense into someone.”

-

Stiles can tell something is wrong. He watches Peter’s forehead crinkle, the man looking for all the world like he’s trying to do mental thermodynamics.

“What is it, creeper wolf?”

“…I…have some kind of memory.”

“I should hope so.”

“It’s- I can’t reach it,” he says, frustrated, combing a hand through his hair.

Stiles turns in his seat, serious. They’re all gathered at the Hale house as usual and the others are somewhere, sparring or chatting or lingering around the snacks Stiles brought. It feels right. Like home.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” the man sighs, “but I want to reach it.”

“So, how do we do that?”

“…someone would have to go into my memory.”

“…okay, sure- just take a little stroll around-?” he waves his hands in circles, trying to get a grasp on the concept. _Don’t tell me werewolves can read minds. Please, God-_

“No. Just…it’s something we can do. It’s difficult.”

“How are you sure it’s not something you shouldn’t remember? From being dead?” Derek asks, suddenly by the sofa. Stiles shoots him a _not helping glare,_ but thankfully Peter is too distracted to take the remark personally.

“I know it isn’t. It’s just…a feeling.”

“Fine. Then we’ll do it,” Derek says, claws suddenly out, and Stiles scrambles.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa- wait a minute. Wait- shouldn’t _I_ be the one helping, here? I mean, I know you’re keen on stabbing Peter but-,”

“I’m not going to hurt him,” Derek rolls his eyes. _God. They’re so much more alike than either one wants to admit._

“Yeah, I figured- just…let me, okay? I’m supposed to be his Alpha, anyways. Maybe it’ll work better.”

Derek hesitates. Peter raises an eyebrow at his nephew. By this point the others are milling closer like some sort of indiscreet children. Stiles casts Scott an unimpressed look and his friend has the good grace to look guilty.

“It might hurt. I can’t guarantee it’ll work right,” Derek says, quiet, looking into Stiles’ eyes.

“Do you tell all of them that or am I just a lucky girl,” Stiles half-laughs, the humor falling flat.

Derek positions himself behind them, drawing in a deep breath that Stiles mirrors. He says something and then Stiles is sucked away, sudden and jerking, falling into a deep hole.

By the time he comes back, he has a name on his tongue and an image in his mind.

“ _Malia_.”

-

 

They’re in the middle of a fight.

Somehow, a day at the lake had turned sour very quickly. One moment he’d been watching Erica in the water, trying to slap Isaac off Scott’s shoulders, and the next there’d been wolves pouring from the trees. They had been attacked on their land and Derek had been raging, a singular roar ripping through the forest.

“Allison!”

Boyd boosts her up, watching as she aims a sleeping dart with one hand while pulling herself onto a branch with the other. She’s a not-really-new addition to their team. Since she and Scott started drifting, Stiles had made a point to make sure she knew she was welcome in their circle. That and he’s seen the looks Isaac shares with her.

“Watch your back!” Erica yells as she sprints by, leaping the table behind Stiles as she attacks.

“That’s what Peter’s for!” he yells back cheerily, swinging his bat around in time to catch a wolf.

They work well together. It’s a benefit of training as a unit, the Packs lending their strength to each other. Sometimes he thinks they overlap, never quite separate entities but more like symbiotic ones. They each have threads in each other, little knots of shared trauma and joy connecting them for life.

That’s what he draws on as they fight and he swings his bat, watching figures fall.

Malia runs by with her father, hair flying as she skids on the ground to avoid an outstretched claw. She is also a new addition- although not quite. Her dynamic is…different. She certainly loves her non-biological father and seems vaguely interested in knowing more about Peter. She definitely has his wild streak, although it may be from her days as a werecoyote. Whatever the case, she’s an asset and one Stiles is happy to have on his side.

“They’re all Alphas,” Derek says, eyes glowing as he moves close to Stiles, breathing heavily, “I don’t know what they want but-,”

Stiles pushes the man down instinctively, watching a clawed hand swipe by. He swings his bat, catching an Alpha in her chest and watching her collapse. Derek blinks, straightening, and glances at him.

“Doesn’t matter. They’re not welcome here,” he says, shoulders itching.

He’s about to open his wings when he feels it. The same magnetic tug that tells him where the Pack are. The compass needle swinging around. It draws him and he follows it, eyes wide. He knows, somehow, where they have to go.

“Bank,” he tells Derek, glancing at the man. Derek looks into his eyes, checking, and immediately accepts it.

Stiles yells, throwing a small pouch into the air. Allison shoots it where it soars, bluish powder exploding. The Alphas instinctively back away, tense, while the Pack sprints for the car. Stiles lays down a line of ash almost instantly, tossing the bag and watching the powder trickle.

They only need a minute’s head start. The Pack split and dash, following Derek towards the bank. Stiles is at his Jeep before the Alphas even realize the powder isn’t wolfsbane, throwing the key and gunning the engine.

He’s the first one to the bank and the first one in. He sprints, wildly turning in circles for any sign. _There has to be something here. There has to,_ he thinks, knowing the tug he felt was real. It was there, faint but familiar. His heart pounds.

He finds a vault and pulls the door open slowly, tense. When he steps around the corner, he sees her face.

“Who are you?” she spits, hair tangled and face dirty. She is struggling to call her wolf, eyes flickering like dying lightbulbs.

“Stiles,” he says, feeling the magnetic pull thrum, “and I’m with Peter and Derek.”

Her eyes widen and then the fight pours into the bank. He can hear them outside and then he moves to let her out of her restraints, working quickly. The sounds get worse and then an Alpha sprints in. Before he can say anything, the girl- the _Hale_ \- is tackling the intruder.

It’s a mess. He gets through the now empty door and it sounds like a zoo outside, werewolves attacking and threatening to break the very walls around them. _This has to stop,_ he thinks, trying to think of a way out.

It’s as he’s thinking that Derek hits the ground, thrown there by what looks like a woman with clawed feet and an even larger man at her side. Her hand raises, ready to cut Derek’s throat, and Stiles feels something snap.

He roars, a sound of fury and defiance, and his wings snap harder than he’s ever opened them before. The push propels him forward and he finds himself suspended over Derek, breathing heavily, enclosing them in feathers.

The world around them disappears for a moment. There is only purple-black color and shadows. Derek looks up, surprised, something intruding in his eyes. Wonder, respect… _love?_ Stiles wants nothing more than to kiss him, sealing that emotion in, keeping it locked there.

Instead, he turns and rises, wings fluttering as he faces the Alphas who have reassembled behind him. They look uneasy and perhaps even a little frightened.

The new Hale is looking at him sideways, distrustful and hesitant.

“You have two options,” Stiles starts calmly, “One: you leave. Two: you leave, sporting a few shiny new injuries.”

“What are you?” one of the Alphas asks, growling.

“Did either of those options include talking?” Stiles asks Jackson, feigning confusion.

“You know, I don’t think they did,” he says drily, cracking his knuckles.

“If you think you can intimidate us,” the large man says, advancing a step, “you’re-,”

An arrow whizzes by, lodging itself in his shoulder. He stares at it for a moment, disbelieving. Stiles bites down a laugh and glances over his shoulder. Allison shrugs as if to say _not my fault_ and Lydia hands her crossbow back, raising an eyebrow.

“What? He was getting annoying,” Lydia says, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder.

“Yeah,” Stiles smirks, turning back to the Alphas, “So. Leave. We’d be happy to speak with you in a formal setting, should you ever desire to try coming this way again. At the moment, though, you are intruding and attacking in territory that is not yours. I’ll give you this chance to see yourselves out.”

He can see the moment they decide. Their stances shift from defensive to reluctant, the desire to fight still apparent in their expressions. Still, he thinks, they at least back down enough to walk away. Even if he _knows_ they’ll be back.

“A pleasure,” the woman sneers, eyes flashing as she leads the rest of the pack.

Stiles watches them go and glances at Lydia.

“I’ll check the defenses later today,” she says, “and add a few more.”

“Good. We’ll talk to Deaton tomorrow about it.”

He is suddenly hyperaware of the new Hale in their midst. She stands there, dirty and defiant, on guard. Derek approaches her slowly, biting back his response, attempting to gauge how much she remembers.

“Cora?”

“Hey, Derek,” she says quietly.

-

It’s his eighteenth birthday.

The party is big. Bigger than he’d usually expect, at least. He had known when Scott had dragged him blindfolded what they were doing. The Hale house is the most logical party place- it is, after all, the biggest. There’s enough room for the wolves to romp and Derek is even considering adding a pool.

Derek, with a pool.

“I can’t believe you all made food without me,” Stiles snorts, ducking as a football flies overhead.

“Well, _some_ of us aren’t bad cooks,” Lydia says airily, strolling by with Jackson at her side.

The party doesn’t feel too different from any of their usual get-togethers. It’s still the same people, still the same sense of family- except now he has the lingering knowledge that his senior year is here and it will be the end.

Or at least some kind of end. After this, he’s not sure where they’ll end up. All he knows is that they won’t ever change- not their Pack and not their bonds.

“Hey, birthday boy,” Cora says flatly, “Here.”

She tosses a box at him and he catches it, raising an eyebrow. Cora is one of the hardest, he thinks, to keep around. Her life after the fire forged habits that were hard to break. He’s not certain she’ll stay- and he wouldn’t hold her back if she left. Still, he likes that the group is doing a good job of bringing her in. Letting her know she has a place.

“What is it?”

“You know, you have these things- they’re called hands. They have these amazing things on them called fingers-,”

“Okay,” he says, smirking as he cuts her off, “I get it.”

He barely peels away some of the paper before he slaps it back over the box, mortified. The writing on the side of the box is burned into his mind.

“ _Cora_ ,” he hisses, “What the-,”

“It was Malia,” she says immediately, giving her cousin up as soon as she thinks there’s trouble. He wants to laugh but is still too embarrassed. “I pitched in so I could piggyback. I have no idea what you’d want.”

“Did you even _look_ -,”

“She said it would help,” Cora says, grabbing a plate and burger buns, “With the stupid tension between you and Derek. I figured we could _all_ use that gift.”

 _I bet,_ he thinks, searching for a place to hide the box, _except a sex toy is not something I want to open in front of the whole Pack._

Thankfully, the rest of his presents are tame. He has a good laugh opening them and guessing which each is from- _Not fair, you’re using your bird powers,_ Scott had complained. _I can’t dignify that with a response,_ Stiles had replied, tipping back his plastic cup to finish off the soda in it.

The night doesn’t really wind down. It just…tapers, everyone still in good spirits as they file away to their respective rooms. He can hear their music and laughter as he hauls his presents into his Jeep, pulling his overnight bag from the backseat.

“Need help?”

“I _swear_ to werewolf Jesus,” Stiles breathes, heart skipping in his chest. It’s a multifacted skip, both because he’s startled and because it’s Derek.

“I don’t think we have one.”

“I dunno, Peter was set on fire and killed by his own Pack, so…”

“Peter is not werewolf Jesus. Don’t tell him that. It’ll go to his head and I’ll have to resize the front door again.”

Stiles laughs, high on sugar and happiness and birthday presents. He’s also a little high on Derek, if he’s being honest. _A good high._ It occurs to him that since he’s eighteen he doesn’t legally have to worry. _If I wanted to do anything, that is. Or if he wanted to._

“You can sleep in my room for the night,” Derek says, hands in his pockets, “It’s your birthday.”

“Your bed isn’t that much bigger,” Stiles smirks, “unless you’re suggesting I sleep in your room _with_ you. That, I can get behind.”

“I…can’t…I mean, I won’t…stop you,” Derek manages, avoiding eye contact as they walk back to the house.

“Holy shit, are you _blushing_ -,”

“ _Shh-_ ,”

“No, I made Derek Hale blush and I want the _world_ to know-!”

He’s laughing and running away when Derek chases him, grinning, saying something about ripping his throat out with his teeth. Stiles manages to get into Derek’s room before the man, phone in hand, recording the entire time.

Maybe Derek closes the door or maybe it shuts itself. Maybe someone else passes by and closes it (which would be just like Lydia). Whatever the case, Stiles is suddenly pinned to the bed and squirming as Derek looms over him and then their foreheads knock and Stiles kisses him. He leans up as if it is nothing, as if nothing will change and this is all fine and normal.

And Derek’s arms are aggravatingly beautiful and firm on either side of his head, his legs boxing him in. Stiles lays there, feeling like he’s burning more than he did when his wings were hidden. Except now the burning is warm and pleasant and-

There’s a low _whack_ and Derek blinks, breaking away to see the tip of Stiles’ wing hit something off the nightstand. Stiles feels his skin heat- not with whatever is between them, this time.

“Sorry-,” he manages, struggling to lever himself up so he can fold them away, but then Derek practically _attacks_ his neck with renewed interest.

 _Okay, cool, guess he has a kink for…wings? Lucky me,_ Stiles thinks, gasping in breaths as he inches up the bed.

“Der- _Derek,_ ” he says, struggling to string together a sentence, “I- _fuck,_ hold on- hol-,”

Derek pauses, brow furrowed, panting against Stiles’ cheek. He looks concerned.

“What’s wrong?”

“Um- aha- we’re in a…house…full of werewolves,” he says, trying to sound casual, “and I really don’t think we should...you know. Screw each other’s brains out. When everyone can hear.”

He almost laughs when Derek’s expression shifts from confusion to hunger to embarrassment. The man eventually settles, somewhat bashful, and hovers over Stiles’ mouth.

“Okay,” he says, “you’re right. Did you know I have an apartment?”

Stiles blinks, caught off guard, and starts to laugh. Derek pouts even as Stiles pats his arm, tears welling in his eyes from the laughter.

“That was… _so_ subtle and romantic, Derek, I can’t-,”

He doesn’t get to finish because Derek growls, heaving him off the bed, and then Stiles happily steals the shower first.

After all, it’s his birthday.


End file.
